"So you say."

"I do say it. You act like a fella with bees in his breeches every time we meet. For the life of me, I cannot think why that should be. Nevertheless, I know an unhappy man when I see one, and here I have one in my eye."

"I am not unhappy," he said, his whole face puckered in a petulant scowl.

"I think you are. Or, if not unhappy, then displeased. Tell me what you've got caught in your craw, and I will do my best to help you."

He glared at me, then turned away. "Finish saddling your horse. It is time we were on our way."

"No," I replied. "Not until you tell me what is wrong with you."

He turned on me with sudden anger. "With me?" he said, almost shouting. "You find fault with me when it is yourself you should be chiding."

"Me! What have I done?"

He made a sound like the growl of a frustrated dog and turned away again.

"Well, this is going to be a long day a-standin' here," I told him. "I'm not moving until I know your mind." He glared at me balefully, and I thought he would not speak.

"Well? What is it to be? Either we make peace between us, or stand here and glower at one another like two stubborn roosters in a yard."

He snarled again, his frustration boundless, and I could not help but laugh at the hopelessness of the situation. "See here, Siarles, my contrary friend. You're going to have to give me something more than grunts and growls if we are to get to the meat of the matter. So you might as well tell me and get it done."

"I don't like Englishmen," he grimaced through gritted teeth. "Never have. Never will."

"Half an Englishman only," I corrected. "My mother was a Briton, mind. As was your own if you had one."

"You know what I mean. Bran had no business taking you in."

"No? It seems to me that a lord can take a vassal of any fella willing to swear fealty to him. I bent the knee to Bran right gladly, and my word holds fast through fair or foul," I declared. "You wanted to come along because you don't trust me. You thought I'd steal the ring and fly away as soon as I got out of sight."

He glowered at me, and I could see I'd hit near the mark. "You don't know what I think," he muttered at last.

"Yes, I do," I told him. "You had a cosy little nest in the greenwood and then along comes this big ol' Englishman, Will Scarlet, stomping all over your tidy garden with his great boots, and you're afraid he's going to squash you like a bug." Siarles frowned and climbed into the saddle. "But, see here, I en't about squashing you or anybody else, nor usurping 'em from their rightful place. Neither am I leaving my sworn liege lord just because you don't like the cut of my cloth. Lord Bran's dealings are his own, and if that sticks in your gizzard, then talk to him. Don't punish me."

He turned his mount and rode away. I followed a few paces behind, giving him space and time, hoping he would come 'round to a better humour sooner or later. But though I tried my best to cheer him along and show him I bore no ill feelings over his churlishness, his mood did not improve. I resolved to ignore his sour disposition and get on with the chore at hand.

Saint Tewdrig's in the north is but a short distance beyond the border of Elfael-a new monastery tucked in the curving arm of a valley across the river close on the border of the cantref. I counted five buildings, including a small church, all of timber arranged in a loose square and surrounded by a low whitewashed wall. Small fields-flat squares of snow with barley stubble showing through like an unshaved chin-flanked the monastery. We crossed one of these and arrived at the gate and pulled the braided bell cord hanging at the gatepost. A light, clinking ring sounded in the chill air, and presently a small door opened within the larger. "Pax vobiscum. How can I help you?" asked the porter. He looked blandly at me, and then at Siarles, and his eyes lit with recognition. "Silidons! Welcome! Come in. Come in! I will tell Father Asaph you are here." He turned and hurried off across the yard, leaving us to stand outside with our mounts, which could not pass through the small door.

"Silidons?" I said. "What is that?"

"It was Bran's idea," he said. "He thought it would be better for the monks if they did not know our real names."

True enough, I reckoned, for if the Normans suspected the monks knew anything to help them find us, they would be in danger deep and dire. "Nor can they sell us out," I considered.

"Not likely, that."

"You must have a high opinion of priests. I've known one or two that would not spare a moment's thought to trade their mothers to the Danes for a jug of ale and two silver pennies."

"The priests you know may be rogues," he said, "but the brothers here can be trusted."

"How do you know they won't go running to the sheriff behind our backs?"

"Lord Bran built this monastery," he explained simply. "That is, our Bran gave the money so that it could be built. Asaph was the bishop of Llanelli, the monastery at Caer Cadarn before the Ffreinc took it and drove the monks out and turned the place into a market town.

Asaph accepts the patronage without asking who gives it."

I was not really concerned, but if I'd had any fear of betrayal, meeting Bishop Asaph removed even the most niggly qualm. The man was like one of those saints of old who have churches named after them. White haired and wispy as a willow wand, the old man pranced like a goat as he swept us into the holy precinct of the monastery, arms a-fly, bare heels flashing beneath his long robe, welcoming us even as he berated the porter for leaving us loitering at the gate.

"God's peace, my friends. All grace and mercy upon you. Silidons! It is good to see you again. Brother Ifor, how could you leave our guests standing outside the gate? You should always insist they wait inside. Come in! Come in!"

"Bishop Asaph," said Siarles, "I present to you a friend of mine"- he hesitated a moment, and then said-"by the name of… Goredd." Odo has stopped to scratch his head. He is confused. "Yes," I tell him, "Siarles and Silidons are one and the same. The monks know him as Silidons, see? They know me now as Goredd. Can we get on?"

"Just one question, Will…"

"One?"

"Another question, then. This monastery you speak of in Saint Tewdrigs? Where would that lie, specifically?"

"Why, it lies exactly on the spot where it stands, not a foot's breadth to the north nor to the south."

Odo frowns. "I mean to say it sounds a pagan name. Would you know the French?"

I let my temper flare at him. "No-I would not! If the Ffreinc will insist on renaming every village and settlement willy-nilly, it is unreasonable of them to expect honest men such as myself to commit them all to memory and recite them at the drop of a hat! If your good abbot wishes to visit the place, I suggest that he begin further enquiries in hell!"

Odo listens to this with a hurt, doglike expression. As I finish, his hurt gives way to wryness. "Honest men such as you?" he asks.

"There is more honesty in me than there is in a gaggle of Norman noblemen, let us not be mistaken."

Odo shrugs and dips his quill. After allowing me to cool for a moment, he repeats the last line written, and we trudge on… Long robes flapping around his spindly shanks, the old bishop led us across the yard. For all his joy at seeing us, a doleful mood seemed to rest heavy on the place, and I wondered about it.

The brother stabler took our horses away to be fed and watered, and the bishop himself prepared our rooms, which, I believe, had never been used. They were spare and smelled of whitewash, and the beds were piled with thick new fleeces. "I see they don't get many visitors," I observed to Siarles when Asaph had gone.

"The monastery is new still," he allowed, "and since the Ffreinc came to Elfael not many people travel this way anymore."